


The Darkest Season

by tinsnip



Category: Deep Dish Nine - Fandom, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deep Dish Nine, M/M, Melancholy, Missing someone, lonely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of Deep Dish Nine.</p><p>Elim Garak has been gone for a year, now, and Julian's still not quite over it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Darkest Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady Yate-Xel](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lady+Yate-Xel).



> The lyrics in this fic are from Deb Talan's ["The Darkest Season"](http://youtu.be/javK_fnP6kA). If you like the song, please buy it; it is available on iTunes, and it is remarkably lovely.
> 
> This is not Deep Dish Nine "canon," such as it is; this is just a melancholy little thing that ran through my head.
> 
> For more information on Deep Dish Nine, check out its [Dreamwidth page](http://deepdishnine.dreamwidth.org/profile) or its [tumblr!](http://deep-dish-nine.tumblr.com/)

_the last few golden leaves are clinging tightly to their branches_  
 _like they don’t want to let go_  
 _like they don’t trust what they don’t know_

* * *

The wind picked up, whipping the branches of the trees along the street into a frenzy. The little yellow leaves danced frantically in the chill, and the ends of his scarf flapped too, caught by the rushing air. He bundled himself further into his coat, pulling it tightly across his chest, and walked a little faster.

God, winter already? It couldn’t be... Hadn’t it just been summer? He’d just finished his summer courses, had just written his exams... but then, yeah, fall term had started, complete with hospital rotations to devour his time, and... _But it was sunny, it was just—_

Time had gotten away from him. _I can’t seem to catch up._

And now the fall was fading so quickly into winter that he felt as if he’d missed it completely. He looked around him, trying to take it in. Fallen leaves lined the residential street, scattered across the pavement, piled up in the gutters; they covered the lawns, they crunched under his feet, their myriad colours muted under the grey sky. _It should be prettier than this, shouldn’t it? It was last year..._

Well, a lot of things had been different last year, hadn’t they.

He shrugged his bag a little higher up on his shoulder, trying to find a more comfortable spot for the strap. It was a bit of an endless struggle; the bag was always so full of books and notes and binders and occasionally scrubs, rolled up small to fit. It was rather a surprise that the seams hadn’t split already. One of these days he’d have to invest in something a bit larger, more practical.

His mittened hand slid up the strap, the yarn catching at the spot where it was mended. _It’s lasted this long. It can last a little longer._

Up ahead was the little path between houses where students often cut across to East Campus. That was the way he usually went. It saved at least fifteen minutes, and it was nice to get to lecture early, to have time to grab a coffee and chat with classmates and warm up a little.

 _Not today._ Today he wanted to walk a little longer, to be by himself a little longer.

Because this was a year, wasn’t it?

_Yes..._

He was being self-indulgent and whiny and dumb about this. He should be over it.

He bit his lip.

One year, now, since Garak left.

* * *

_‘cause it’s not quite winter and it’s not quite fall_  
 _and even though it’s been a year i cannot pass you by, not at all_  
 _i tell myself: enough_  
 _my heart can’t feel the reason_  
 _why must we into the darkest season?_

_* * *_

There were ways it was supposed to go, when someone had to leave.

If they were your friend, they could leave with regret, with hugs and promises to visit, and then emails and phone calls could follow.

If they were... more than a friend, well, that could go a few ways. There could be tears, or there could be anger; sometimes there could be resignation on both sides that this had been something good, and now it was over, and there was nothing that could be done but smile and go on.

Garak had definitely been... _Is, damn it. Is. He is still my friend._

He had, perhaps, been on track to being more. They’d never really had the chance to find out. They’d had a little under a year to get to know each other, to wind more and more into each other’s lives; there had been date after date, and Julian had grinned, and Garak had smiled. There’d been the touch of hands. There’d been cultural lessons. There’d been a stolen moment in a library, when things had seemed possible. For a little while there, he’d thought he was going to take up permanent residence on the man’s couch, to read and talk and watch movies and laugh and just be there with him, because it always seemed to be the right place for him to be.

There had never been a kiss.

_Can it still be a romance if we never kissed?_

More than friends and less than lovers; it was something different, something without a definition. Well, that seemed about right for Garak. Garak was someone who’d very much enjoyed pushing Julian’s boundaries, making him redefine, making him think about things in a new way. God, the man had never seemed happier than when he was making Julian feel mildly irritated, making him squint as his world suddenly seemed to refocus before his eyes. A book wasn’t about what you thought it was; a movie had a deeper motif that required exploration; and Julian, listen, really _listen_ to the cello here – do you hear that?

And he had to admit he’d taken a certain amount of pleasure in doing the same thing to Garak, who was so calm and pleasant and self-possessed, whose wit was sharp and who thought quickly and whose expression, when flabbergasted, was absolutely one-hundred percent _excellent._ It didn’t get much better, really, than making the man rethink his situation – they’d argued about the value of science fiction once, and it had resulted in a reluctant detente and a promise to read something Julian picked out, and then one week later Garak had appeared at his door, Julian’s copy of A Canticle for Leibowitz in hand, and his face, oh, it had been just _great—_

He found himself grinning as he walked; the wind blew sharply, making him shrink down into his scarf, and the grin faded. Three more blocks to campus.

Rethinking situations. Yeah, that was something, wasn’t it; he’d rethought his situation rather quickly and completely the night Garak had smiled at him, at the door to his apartment, the night Julian had found himself staring at the man, at how his gaze had lingered on Julian’s face. There had been a moment, a feeling of suspension in time.

_If anything was ever going to happen, it was then._

He’d felt his world re-focus: a quick blur, a sudden snap, and abruptly everything had been clear, and so he’d leaned in just a little, body tingling, heart racing, and Garak’s eyes had widened. He’d felt Garak’s pulse matching his own between their palms, and their fingers had slid tightly together, and it had been—

Well, it had been nothing, because Garak had blinked and pulled his hand away, had shaken his head; his smile had suddenly been distant and strange, his gaze far away, and his goodnight had followed immediately. Julian had watched him walk down the hallway, back straight as always, stride smooth, but there’d been something about him, something...

_Too fast. He walked too fast._

He’d moved as if he was afraid, as if something was following him that might catch up at any moment. Julian had never seen that in his posture before. It had been weird and worrying, and he’d half wanted to run down the hall after him, to ask what was wrong.

But you just didn’t do that with Garak, did you?

_I wish I had said something, I wish I—_

Stupid. Too late now.

The next day he’d heard a knock on his door in the morning, while he was still shaving. He’d assumed it was Miles, and he’d answered the door with a face full of foam, and instead it had been Garak, Garak dressed perfectly, Garak smiling mildly, Garak a million miles away and impossible, impossible to reach.

He’d been rethinking his situation, he’d said. He was sorry this was so sudden, but he had some business to attend to which would require him to leave. He’d put it off as long as possible, but what could one do? He had wanted to let Julian know his circumstances before he left, so that Julian wouldn’t worry. He thanked Julian for the many pleasant times they had spent together, and was very grateful to him for his kindness and his friendship, and for gifting him with the privilege of his company. When would he be back? He really couldn’t say. Was he in some sort of danger? Julian, how fanciful you are; who would want to hurt a tailor? No, he would not be reachable by email or phone; no, not even by letter, as he thought he would very likely be on the move for some time. Through it all his face had been composed and pleasant, his smile calm, and his eyes...

His eyes...

While his lips had moved, while his voice had spun pleasantries, his eyes had moved over Julian’s face, his body, his hands as if recording every last detail, and Julian had stood there with no shirt on, in his pajama bottoms, half-shaved with a razor in his hand and hadn’t said anything, goddamn it, he _hadn’t said anything_ and now it was too late, it was always going to be too late.

Damn it. _Damn_ it. It had been a year, and it hadn’t ever been anything anyway, and he’d had friends move away before, and why did he still _feel_ like this?

He ran a mittened hand over his eyes and tugged his bag up a little higher again; the damn thing was always slipping down.

* * *

_it’s cold, getting colder_  
 _i dreamt last night of being older_  
 _i looked in the mirror – there was so much grey_  
 _if i saw you tomorrow, what would i say?_  
 _what could you say?_

* * *

There hadn’t been anything after that.

He’d waited for an email, or a phone call, or a letter, or a smoke signal for God’s sake, but there’d been nothing, there’d just been nothing.

He’d sent an email; it had bounced.

He’d tried Garak’s cell; the number had been out of service.

He’d written a letter. He still had it. There was nowhere to send it.

The man was just... gone.

About a month later he’d been on his way out, and as he’d passed through the lobby he’d seen moving men coming and going up and down the basement stairs, filling up a van, and they’d been carrying Garak’s things, they’d had _Garak’s things—_

His fists clenched at the memory, and he frowned and jammed his hands into his pockets. Too cold even for mittens, today; he couldn’t help but shiver.

He’d stopped one of the men, and he’d asked, and the man had shrugged; _just doin’ my job, buddy, we got a letter, clean out 101._

Who sent the letter? No idea.

What happens to everything now? Shrug.

Where are you taking it all? To the repo depot, now, if you would be so kind as to let me and the guys finish up...

The table. The chairs. The bookcase. Oh, God, the couch? And the _sewing machine—_

Part of him had wanted to stay, to watch, but why? That was stupid, wasn’t it? He couldn’t have any of it, and clearly somebody wanted rid of it, and if Garak had meant to come back... well, if he’d meant to come back he’d have done something to make sure his things were still there. If he still wanted any of them. If he still wanted _anything_ from this place.

He’d left. He’d gone to class. And when he’d come home, the van had been gone, and he’d gone downstairs like an idiot and looked at Garak’s door, and it had looked like any door. He hadn’t known what he was doing there. He hadn’t known what he’d expected to find.

Miles had been kind about it. That hadn’t even been surprising, really; Miles was a good guy, right down to the core, and even though he’d never much liked Garak, he’d understood why Julian was upset. That night Miles had taken him to Quark’s and gotten him completely shit-faced, and had patted his back and listened, God, nobody could listen like Miles. He hadn’t said much. He’d just been there, and at the end of the night when Julian had turned into a pathetic weepy asshole and had really desperately needed to get home, he’d pretty much carried him there. The next morning, he’d come by with hangover food, and they’d talked some more, and Julian had felt a little better.

Life went on, right? You moved forward, right?

Whether you wanted to or not.

Now he could see the gate of East Campus up ahead, between the two little lecture halls, and he was becoming part of a slow convergence of students, all bundled up against the weather. Everyone had their own little path to follow, and some walked in twos and threes and some walked alone, and God, he was miserable today; he was reading his own mood into everything around him.

_Stupid. Grow up._

It was just that... The night before, he’d had a dream. He’d woken up in the middle of it, and he couldn’t quite remember what it had been about. Garak had been in it, though, and he’d... he’d had grey hair, and his face had been older, finely lined. He’d stood next to Julian, and they’d looked in a mirror together, and Julian had been older too, just as grey. He couldn’t remember anything else, just that: the two of them together, laughing about something, and it had felt good, and he’d woken up laughing at his ceiling, alone in the dark.

He hadn’t slept much after that. He’d sat in his bed, arms wrapped around his knees, looking out the window and watching the cars moving up and down the boulevard, watching the occasional late-night couple wander their way down the street, watching the patternless on-and-off blinking of the lights in the apartments across the street. Being awake in the middle of the night was so strange. You felt like you had the world to yourself.

He hadn’t thought about anything. He’d just existed. _A year, it’s been a year..._

If Garak turned up at his door tonight – if, when he got home from class, he found Garak there waiting – or if the pet food store was suddenly a tailor’s shop again, filled with pretty things—

_Would I even know him anymore?_

What would he say to Garak? Would he be angry at him? Would he be glad to see him?

_God, what would he say to me?_

He didn’t even know if he wanted an apology or an explanation, or if he was even entitled to either. Garak had said his goodbyes. They’d been sudden and sad and that had been that, and who the hell was Julian to think that Garak owed him anything more?

Moot point, anyway. There’d been no contact. His things were gone. It made sense to assume he wasn’t coming back.

He blinked against the wind. Cold, today; he kept tearing up—

* * *

_it’s not that i’m not thankful or grateful for what we’ve grown_  
 _it’s not that i’m not living my life all right on my own_  
 _i just feel the empty space_  
 _i just feel the wind blow through_  
 _i just thought in any case i would always know you_

* * *

It was stupid to be maudlin and melancholy over it, anyway. It had been a wonderful friendship. It had been goddamned amazing, actually. He’d learned so much from Garak; he’d had so much fun with him, reading and watching and talking and laughing, and it had been _great,_ and now it was done, and there was no point painting it all over with sadness when it had been so _good._ Better to smile, looking back; better to be thankful for what they’d had, grateful that they’d had a whole year of it. A year was a long time. It could have been less. Or it could not have happened at all.

You got what you got. There was no point asking for more. And then life went on, and you went on with it, you moved forward.

And he certainly didn’t have much to complain of, did he? He had a job he liked, and school was excellent, and the hospital rotations were fun, and his friends kept him busy, and he was never bored, and if it sometimes felt like something was missing, well, it was up to him to fill that gap, wasn’t it?

He didn’t get the chance to read as much, these days, but he was slowly working his way through the Cardassian literature section of the local library branch. Once he’d read all of that, then he could move on to the central branch. He figured that would take a while.

He’d brought Jadzia to see a foreign film at the little Cardassian theatre, and that had actually been great: she got the references, and talked about these Cardassians she’d known in one of her past lives, and whether or not that was bullshit, it was still fun to hear her talk about it. Turned out she’d read some Cardassian novels, too, and while she wasn’t as wild about Meditations on a Crimson Shadow as he was, they’d still found lots to discuss. Next week there was going to be a showing of the 1992 remake of _The Memory Curtain;_ they were going to go together and eat popcorn and whisper back and forth in the front row, and he was really looking forward to it.

He and Miles were spending more time together, too, and that was good. Garak and Miles... well, it had just never worked, and so he’d had to kind of portion out his time between them. He’d not liked that very much. This was better. Miles had a lot on his mind these days, with the new baby on the way; Kira had moved in with Miles and Keiko, and that was a really strange dynamic. Julian couldn’t imagine it, really. _This is my wife, and this is my co-worker who’s carrying our child._ Weird, and weirder for Miles, who couldn’t let it show because he didn’t want to upset any of the women in his life, including Molly, who thought having Aunt Kira around was simply grand. It was a good thing he had Julian to talk to about it. The two of them went for beers, sometimes. Other times they gamed together whenever they could snatch an hour, and chatted over their headsets, just touching base, keeping Miles sane, and it was good for both of them.

And then there was Ezri. Both Miles and Jadzia had given him significant looks, had told him to watch her next time they worked together, and he’d blinked in disbelief. _Me? Really?_ But yes, there it had been, obvious enough for even him to pick up on: she’d watched him, and when he’d caught her looking, she’d smiled shyly and almost dropped a plate. He hadn’t decided what to do about that, yet. But it was rather nice to think about.

So there was nothing missing in his life, was there? It was full, in fact.

But still, here was the scarf Garak had given him, its touch at his collarbone as gentle as a pale hand. Here was the coat Garak had made him, warm around him as a pair of arms had never been, and it was just—

He pressed his lips together and blinked. He was almost at the lecture hall, now; time to pull himself together a bit. _Knock it off, Julian._

It was just that he missed him. And he hadn’t ever expected to miss him. He hadn’t expected to have to.

They’d fit together, they’d fit _so well,_ and part of him had thought – God, it was so stupid to only see it looking back, but there it was. Part of him had thought, _well, here you are! I’ve been waiting for you! It took you long enough, but there’s time now, there’s lots of time—_

It had been a friendship, maybe a romance, and it had been wonderful, and he’d just thought that no matter what happened – whether they’d turned into something more than maybe, whether they’d stayed just friends...

_I thought I’d always know him._

He blinked, chewed on the inside of his lip. _I wonder if I ever really knew him at all?_

Up on to the shoulder one more time, with a heave; God, this bag was heavy, but still the mended strap was holding. With his hand braced against the strap, he shouldered his way through the double doors and into the warm air of the lecture hall, moving forward.

* * *

_\--deb talan, “the darkest season”_

 


End file.
